Rensselaer Republican, Volume 24, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 December 1891 — The Heir of Linne. [ARTICLE]

The Heir of Linne.

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER VI — Continued. A little old woman in mob cap and cotton gown —no other, indeed, than Mysie Gardner, who, in obedience to her busband's call, had descended ohe stairs and now stood amazed at the sight of stranger. The young man looked at’ her calmly from head to foot, then turned away and proceeded to divest himeclf of his wet wrappers. This done, he took a chair before the fire and put bis feet on the hob. “Cone, don’t stand looking at me .ike two fools,” he said. “but give JSa glass o£ fiu.iy! At the: half hour I shall be on the road again;'' he added. gazing at the hands of the Dutch clock which stood in a corner of the kitchen. "That will give the horse seven minutes to rest and feed, and if the brute hasn't had enough by that time why it must starve, that's all!” “Hae you far to gang, sir?" asked Sampson, who had resumed his pipe and seat while Mysie busied herself over the fire preparing hot water for the stranger. "I'm bound for Linne Castle. Is ‘.hat faraway?” • “Only six miles, sir; but a gruesome road on siccan night. I’m thinking you would be wise to bide here.” And I think I should bo a fool..” Neither spoke again. The young man with his feet upon the hob quietly sipped his toddy, ga ing moodily at the hands of the clock as the slowly traveled oh. Sa npson smoked his pipe and gluuoed alternately —at the fire and at the dark face of _the stranger, while Mysie quickly spread the cloth upon the table and prepared the evening meal. Presently a slight click of the clock announced the half hour. The stronger rose, drained off the last of his toddy, paid the score, wrapped his plaid around him, pulled on his hat aid had the door thrown open just as the noise of the wheels of the trap was heard again at the front floor. Old Sampson bade the stranger good night and a God-speed on his journey. Mysie curtsied and smiled but the young man took no heed. Without a look or a word lie crossed the threshold into the darkness and i the sound of wheels told them that ! ho was being borne away. “Lord preserve as a’!” muttered! the inkeeper. “He’s like an ugly; wraith ganging to the hoose o' I death.” said Sampson. “I would, rather the Rob Roy be without' strangers than receive siccan lim-' mersasyov.” —----- I Meanwhile the dogcart containg tlie stranger traveled slowly along the road. & It was black dark all round. Every bo uflEewincT wasincfeasingTnvTolence and the chilly rain fell in ceaseless patter uoon the ground. The■ young man sat moodily silent by the I driver's side, never even moving, save when a blast of wind struck' him with greater violence than usual ■ or the rain drops beat into his blinded eyes. j i ’"“'M’TGod forgotten place?' he said at last, as the dogcart stopped and the driver whistled shrilly to call i forth the lodge keeper-to open the gate. “Is the entrance' to the Castle?" “Ay, me doot.” said the driver. “Then the old fool at the inn lied. Ho told.me we can’t have come six." * We have come four sir; there is two more to travel.” “What is the drive through the grounds two miles long?” “Ay, is it!” The young man leaned back and laughed to hiidself as the carriage! rolled,through the gates and along! a road which seemed to wind into ‘h dense black mass of woodland, | Here the wind wliistied more dreari- ' ly than ever, here the rain fell in a! shower from the swaying brancnes of the fir-trees. And the young man | raised his face to receive, the flrpps, and laughed. Then he got a fit of imnatience and urged the driver on. But the road was bad, and the progress was slow. At every turn they seemed to plunge deeper ipto the mire, until the stranger began to think that they had lost their way. At length, however, a faint gleam of light reassured him. In two minutes more the dogcart slopped before the door of the lonely house. The driver quickly alighting, rang the bell, while the young man slowly unrolled himself from his rugs, and ascending the flight of stone steps, reached the top us the door was slowly opened. It was opened by a shabby old man in plain dress, who bowed at the sight of the traveller, and standing aside, gravely invited him rio enter- Doing so, the young man found himself in a hall, large and lofty, with a-b’ack and white stone pa. cd floor and heavy oaken rafters A faint blue light’' was cast from a lamp which hung suspended from th? rafters. “How -is my uncle?” he asked quickly. * “The laird is nae better,” returned the man, gloomily, as, bowing again, he led the way across the hall, and opening the door, motioned him to enter, “if you will be pleased to •tak’ a chair. I will inform the laird that you are here,” be said; then he noiseiessly closed the door and reared. Instead of taking a chair, the

id.!.:

BOOK THE SECOND. TWENTY YEARS AFTER.

yoicg man turned on his heel, and looked searchingly around the room. It was shabbily, even meanly, furnished, dimly lighted, and sombrelooking Old moth-eaten hangings drooped about the doors and windows while from the walls gazed down the forbidding faces of the lairds of Linne for many generations past. Oppressed by the intense gloom of the place, the young man shivered, and was about to draw near the faint spark of fire which flickered in the grate, when the room door opened, and the servant agaiu appeared. “The laird's compliments, and will bo pleased to tak’ vour dinner? He'll maybe gie himself tho pleasure of seeing you later on.” The young yogng man started, but said nothing; then he made a movement of assent, and followed his guide up to a sleeping room overhead. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes, sir," said the man us he closed the door. A-—i “When! a warm reception to give to an affectionate nephew,” said our traveler, when he found himself alone. “I begin to think the old fool is daft indeed! But after all, there’s method in his madness. A good dinner is by no means to be despised after such a journey.” He proceeded to make his toilet carefully. When he had finished, he began to feel quite cheerful, and as he descended the stairs he whistled a lively air. The grave servant stood in the hall to receive him again. As he ap--proaehed, the diniug room door was thrown wide open. Assuming all the airs of a grand seigneur, he was about to enter the room, when suddenly his eye fell upon an object which made him pause right in the shadow of the door. CHAPTER' VII MARJORIH. The cause of this sudden and embarrassed pause was a young girl, who, clad in a dress of plain homespun cloth, stood upon the diningroom hearth, gazing abstractedly towards the door. As the young man appeared, she bowed slightly, but he without returning the salutation,continued to stand and stare sjtupidly at her. She was quite a girl, not more than eighteen years of age, with eyes of azure blue and a skin like alabaster. Her figure was slight, but full of lissome curved, which were revealed by the clinging folds of her tight-ly-fitting dress. But for her delicate hands and strangely white complexion. she might have been taken for some peasant maiden. Her hair was bound up in a simple snood, her robe was simply cut, and reached only to the ankles, and a white kerchief was laid lightly pound her neck and over her bosom. When tjief young man had made appearance slie had stood calm and self-possessed: but as that curious gaze remained riveted upon her from the doorway, the LSt blood suffused Her face and neck, and she quickly turned away. “I beg your pardon,” said the young man, stopping forward; then, as she merely bowed again, he added quickly, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Eward Linne.” If by this information he expected to ascertain tliegirl’sidentityinrcturn, he was disappointed. The mention of his name merely served to dispel her momentary confusion, and, with a cold inclination of the head, she moved away, took her seat at the head of the table, and mentioned him to be seated too. Edward Linne was not the sort of young man to be easily put out. Al th ough only five- and-1 wen ty y ears of age, he knew as . much of life as most men "of but this sort of conduct rather puzzled him and made him feel anything but at his ease. Had he been left alone with the girl, he confidently believed he would have soon succeeded in breaking through the ice. As it was he felt that his conduct was being quietly but keenly watched by the solemn-faced servant who stood behind the girl’s chair, and he was uneasy under the scrutiny. He was staggered, too, by the girl’s wonderful self-possession. What could she be, so calmly and so coldly to do the honors of the house. She was dressed little better than a peasant, yet her manners were those of a somewhat reserved young lady. A thrill, of terror ran through him. Could his uncle, the laird, have married after all, and have a family, and perhaps, besides a daughter, a son and heir. It was years since he had met his uncle, and they had never been on very good terms. Some days before he had been summoned from Paris, where he was thea amusing himself, to come at once to the Castle, to which in all his life before he had never received an invitation. His uncle's eccentric habits and extraordinary love of solitude had long kept all his relatives at a distance. Scarcely a word was spoken during dinner. All the young man's attempts at small talk proved unavailing. The girl was cold as an icicle and declined conversation. Fortunately, the meal, which consisted of the very simplest fare, was soon over. Altogether, he was not at all sorry

when at length the ordeal came to an end and the girl rose from her seat and with an icy bow left him. “Who the devil is she?" he soliloquized when he found himself alone. “She isn’t a Wife, for she doesn't wear a ring, and my venerable uncle can’t, surely, have a daughter?’ He rang, the bell, asked the servant if his uncle would see him that night and receiv&dan answer in the negative. The laird had already retired to rest. f ■ / “By the way,” he said, “you only served water at dinner and I ant somewhat thirsty. Can I have something to drink?” , “Ye can hea some soor milk,” returned the old man, grimly. t “Sour milk! Nice, lively liquor in this climate. Have you no wine?” “The laird,” returned the servant, with a snort, “allows nae wine or fermented liquor intil the hoose. He's been tootbtal these ten years.” “Humph! Perhaps you cun inform me who the young lady is who sat down with me atd inner?" “She’s just Miss Majorie," was the reply. "But who is she? What is. she doing here?" “That’s nane o’ my business,” returned the old man.' “If you’re curio us, ask...the laird!" "And with another grim bow the old man left the room. “Pleasant quarters!” muttered Linne. “They may well call it Cas-tle-Hunger. Mutton broth, boiled mutton and carrots for the gentle "bbard and hbt a drop of wine. Well, I suppose I must content myself with a cigar.” He suited the action to the word and began to smoke. He had not been so occupied many minutes when the door opened and the servant stalked in. “The laird’s compliments, and will y ou. pu too 11 hat tobacco? Th esmel 1 o’ the filthy reck is filling the house, and the laird can scent it in his bedroom!” With difficulty suppressing an oath Edward Linne threw his .cigar into the fire. “Here, show me ?my room,” he cried; “I’ll go to bed.” The old man nodded, anc 1 taking a candle from the table, led the way slowly, and calmly to a dismal chamber at the top of the house. “Mind.and blow oot the light,” wsre his parting injunctions. ‘.’Stop, give me some lucifers!” “We hae nane. The laird forbids lucifer matches until the hoose. Dae ye want to burn us a’ in our beds?”

By noon the next day Edward Linne found himself closeted with his uhcle. The laird of Linne was now a man of about sixty years, with ill-health written in every line of his countenance. He lay back on an old tapestry couch in his ’ bedroom, aud fixed his eyes upon his nephew’s face, as if to read his very soul. “You’ve o’er much of your father’s blood in you ever to do much good in the wtrld,” he said. “A young lad who gambles and bets and has disgraceful amous (ah, ye see I know!) at five and-twenty, is not likely ever to be a credit to his family.” The young man colored, bit his lip, tepped the floor impatiently with his foot, and said nothing. “I am glad to see you lack the face to deny these things,” said the«~old. •man peevishly “I ken your past life won’t bear looking into. What I want is to make you projnise better for the future.” “Of course, uncle, I will promise,” said the young man eagerly; “I have been wild, I know; most young men arfe; but I have come to years of discretiofi now. ” “So had you father when he married your mother; and yet—and yet —Edward Linne,” continued the laird eagerly, “do you ever intend to marry?” The young man laughed uneasily. “I suppose I shall succumb to my fate some day.” “Say ye so?” said his uncle grimly. “You mean—when you wear my Shoon ?” 7” J For a time the Old man lay looking at the fire, then he turned again to his nephew. “Edward Linne,” he said, it was never with my consent that they filled your head with all this folly, and made you live a useless life becauseof my wealth, mind that! When my brother married your mother, he was dead to me. When I heard of your wild extravagances and numberless follies, and was told that they regard'ed you as my heir, I laughed in my sleeve, and, used to thijik how bravely I would deceive them. But when your father died, and broke the shameful chain which bound him to his kith and kin, my heart was kinder towards his son!” He paused a moment, and continued — "I excused your follies for the sake of what your father once was to me. I was Willing to regard you as my relation by blood. Your subsequent conduct was told to me, and once or twice I was on the point of striking your name for ever from my will, but in the end I refrained. Weel, I am willing to forget and forgive again, if only you will put your hand in mine and promise never again to do aught that could bring disgrace upon our old name. I know you have no affection for me or mine. I know it s only the hope of my death that brings you here now; but, if I gain your promise of amendment, if rthought that the old place would be safe with you, why, I can, maybe, die in peace.” “Uncle,” said th£ youngman, gently, “is it so hard to trust me? Can you not believe that when I tell you 1 repent, ! epeak the truth?” ■“Weel, weel, I will try to believe

it; yet your post life promises but ill, I’m thinking. There, go now.” he said, waving his thin hands impatiently; “I want Marjorie. ’ As he spoke, ho touched a small handbell that stood beside him. au.i almost immediately, in answer to the summons.there appeared in the dark doorway the fair, cold face of the young girl that had graced tho dinner table with her presrace the' night before. She bowed to the young tn?.n as coldly as she had done on the preceding night, but when she reached the couch whereon the laird of Liune" was lying, and took her seat on the snrdL-loulsioDl by his sitle. hjr b'uel eyes lit up with such a light of affection as made the young itian wonder still more. Then, as the old man again signalled for him to depart. he quietly moved from the room, ana left tlie two'togethcr. [to be oqnttxted.]